“Oh, come on now, you two.” Jennie was still standing between them. “Let’s just go see the inside and get it over with.”
Alva was still stinging from Julia’s remarks. If her own sister—who couldn’t have cared less about society—knew that Alva was still outside the circle, then everyone knew. She wasn’t fooling anyone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Alva
On a cold December morning, Alva and Willie were finishing up breakfast when Oliver Belmont sauntered in. The two men had an appointment to look at a new Friesian horse that Willie was interested in purchasing. Willie had recently become friends with Oliver, though for the life of her, Alva couldn’t understand why. Not only was Oliver a Jew, a rarity in their circles, but his father, August Belmont, was among those who’d blocked them from joining the Academy of Music.
Oliver was only twenty-four, nearly ten years younger than Willie, five years younger than Alva. She supposed he would be handsome once he matured, but for now, he had a round baby face with hardly a hint of whiskers. Yet, despite standing barely five feet tall, he’d managed to woo one socialite after another, including the stunningly beautiful Sara Swan Whiting. Rumor had it they were engaged. Alva had to admit that Oliver had a certain something, and she wasn’t sure if she found him annoying or intriguing. Either way, Sara must have seen that something in him, too. Alva would have assumed that Sara was enough to make any man settle down, but Oliver behaved as if he were still in the Naval Academy, always running around and carrying on until the wee hours of the morning. She worried that Oliver was a bad influence on her husband, who seemed to take on a different persona in Oliver’s presence. When Willie was out with Oliver, he tended to return home with a large gambling loss, smelling of liquor and perfume.
“Good morning. Good morning,” said Oliver, helping himself to a sip of Willie’s coffee. “Overslept,” he said by way of explanation as he reached for a slice of toast, spreading a thick layer of butter and jam on top. “Had to leave the house without breakfast today.” He raised his toast as if cheering with a glass of wine.
Alva smiled to be polite.
“Well,” said Willie, “shall we be going?” He stood up and squared his bowler on his head.
“Have I mentioned lately that I’ve always looked up to you?” said Oliver, popping a crust of toast in his mouth. “But then again,” he laughed, “when you’re my height, you look up to everyone.” He laughed some more as they bid Alva adieu.
His self-deprecating sense of humor—one more thing she didn’t like about Oliver Belmont.
After they left, Alva went back to sipping coffee, and while she sorted through the mail, she came across an envelope addressed to her in Duchy’s familiar handwriting. It had been months since she’d heard from her friend, and Alva had lost count of the number of letters she’d sent that had gone unanswered. Slicing the envelope open, she unfolded the stationery and began to read.
After the obligatory apologies for not writing sooner, she congratulated Alva on getting the new opera house off the ground:
From what you told me, it sounds like you’ve got those men eating out of the palm of your hand. Has your father-in-law even realized yet that you moved him around like a chess piece? You always have been clever as a fox. First Billy Vanderbilt, next, I imagine, is Mrs. Astor . . .
If only, thought Alva. She still hadn’t a clue as to how to win that woman over. She continued reading and when she reached the postscript—Coming for a visit the second week in March—Alva felt a rush of excitement. And it wasn’t only about seeing her friend. No, it was bigger. And just like that, a whole new idea—fully formed and waiting for her—had been sparked. She could feel herself tingling because of it.
The viscountess was coming to town! The viscountess was coming to see her! Everyone—Puss, Tessie, Ophelia, Penelope, Lydia—everyone would want to see her. Those who didn’t know her would surely want to meet her.
The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Alva’s new home would be completed by then, and if ever there was cause for celebration, this was it. Who wouldn’t want to attend a ball with the Viscountess Mandeville? Alva had tried so many other avenues to get herself and the Vanderbilts recognized by society, and nothing had worked. But now she had a different approach. Alva had found her angle. The wheels were already turning. Her friend was right—she was clever as a fox. If she’d manipulated Billy, she could do the same with Mrs. Astor.
With Duchy’s visit and the new house, Alva finally had a way to get society’s attention and make them come to her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Society
NEW YORK, 1883
As soon as Alva tells us she’s throwing a masquerade ball in the spring that will make Mrs. Astor’s look like a barn dance in comparison, we begin to ponder our costumes. We meet with dressmakers and wigmakers, jewelry designers and prop masters. We leaf through history books, looking for figures from the past that we think might inspire the most impressive costumes.
Tessie wants to go as Queen Elizabeth I but so do Mamie and Lady Paget. Why so many wish to be illegitimate and a virgin is a mystery to the rest of us. Penelope and her husband are going as George and Martha Washington; Lydia and her husband will go as incroyables and merveilleuses appearing barefoot with rings on their toes and Greek tunics. Penelope has laid claim to Joan of Arc, which means Ophelia will have to rethink her costume.
We hear this is going to be the biggest ball ever held in a private home and that the guest of honor is going to be Viscountess Mandeville, whom we remember as plain old Consuelo Yznaga. Those of us with daughters know this is a golden opportunity for luring husbands.
“Well, I just better be invited,” says Mamie.
“Then you might try not insulting Alva for once,” says Tessie.
“Me? What about you?” Mamie snaps back.
Their exchange makes us all take a moment to reflect on our previous encounters with Alva. For some, petty jealousies have gotten in the way of common courtesies. A few of us have been less than gracious. Others, like Mamie, have outright snubbed her. But it’s clear to all that Alva is a formidable woman on the rise in society and that we’d best get on the right side of her.
Thoughts of Alva’s masquerade party consume us for days on end until on one cold, wintry morning, the first week in January, we pick up our newspapers and see the headline: Crepe Badges Removed from Astor Home. We go on to read:
The mourning period has officially ended and plans are underway for Mrs. William B. Astor’s annual ball. Sources say invitations to the coveted 400 guests were hand delivered this morning . . .